The Lord Giveth...never mind. Then there are these idiots.

Good day to one and all, the day before Thanksgiving, a quiet work day, and a catch-up day for Slate and Dear Prudence – the letters this week reek of last-minute tossed-together low effort wordsmith masturbation of the lowest order.

I'm in a dour mood – my other blog explains why.

But my therapy session is just starting, and I always feel better afterward.

So here we go.

Go Find the originals here first, read them, and then head on back here.

Frustrated – As I was reading your letter I said to myself “holy cow!” (pun), and “Jesus Christ!” (pun), and “good lord!” (pun), and “oh my God!” (pun). Recap: You, a woman of faith, and your extra super duper wonderfullest-ever boyfriend, a man of faith, signed up for different subscription plans for Jesus. Your subscription, the Catholic brand of Jesus, is understood by you to be free of restrictions regarding premarital sexual relations. His subscription, a more pious brand of Jesus, seems to be less tolerant of premarital sex.

Well, there it is. Your Jesuses are entirely incompatible. It's like this: You have the “Mac” Jesus, and he has the “Windows” Jesus. Note: if you'd both gone open source, maybe with Ubuntu Jesus, you'd be slamming each other off the walls like sex-starved and crazed animals. Just sayin'.

This is a tough thing to go through, but fortunately for you both the solution is simple: one or both of you has to shop for a new Jesus. He could follow your Jesus and start slamming it to you like a bitch wolf in heat three times a day, or you could adopt his brand and slam your legs (and mind) shut until wedding night, where you might both have to pretend you are a virgin, for the Bibo sez “a marriage shall be considered valid only if the wife is a virgin. If the wife is not a virgin, she shall be executed.” (Deuteronomy 22:13-21). It would be a shame to clamp your legs shut and do without for all that time, only to be put to a glorious death as a whore on the greatest day of your life. Sigh.

Props to August Alley, wherever he may be.

Meanwhile, for you both there are many options from which to choose which may fit your lifestyle, budget, and libido requirements; from non-denominational Jesuses that are pretty open minded about most everything, including same-sex marriage, bestiality, and drug use; to strict, unforgiving Jesus models that range from the basic hellfire-and-brimstone hard liners like they inbreed in South Carolina, to the rigidly, complex and completely intolerant “God Hates Fags” brand of Jesus at Westboro Baptist. Note you have to be a black belt in Jesus to buy a subscription to this one. Very elite.

There are other options as well. There are a few different models of Mohammed available – the Sunni and Shia' variants are particularly popular, although they spend a lot of time killing each other because one prays with hands at their sides and the other holds their hands clasped, which is obviously something worth killing and dying for. Additionally you might have that whole veil and second-rate citizen thing to deal with, but that's a small matter so long as you and your beloved man are on the same page.

Kali can be had for pretty cheap these days. Not a big favorite, and I believe the Thugee are illegal (although tolerated), but I hear there's a lot of exciting travel involved. They are pretty cool with murder, but I'm not certain about their stance on premarital sex. You'd better do some research. No fun, killing people all the time but remaining celibate. Like having half a party.

Expensive but still viable is the Thetan experience. There's no Jesus here: the deity is apparently based on some character in a science fiction book, but some famous people swear by it. It's probably going to become illegal in some countries, though, and the business model for this particular Jesus-replacement therapy has suffered a few setbacks that standard models of Jesus have not: invest carefully, and you'd better like Tom Cruise a lot, because he will be up your ass dancing and giggling like a fucking dillweed all day and night. Crazy shit.

I read of the Flying Spaghetti Monster as well. Seems to me this one isn't completely serious, though, although it's every bit as as believable as the standard Jesus sales pitch.

And so you see: each of your Jesuses must come into compatibility before you can fuck your boyfriend. You both just get on out there and test drive a new one, posthaste.

Note: Jesus and Jesus brand iconography are not responsible for personal issues such as psychosis or other mental instabilities; delusions of grandeur; murderous hatred for competing Jesuses, Jesus supplements, and Jesus substitutes; makes no claim of basis in fact, only a series of wildly disagreeing theories and speculation based upon a thousand different versions of a “bible” or a “Torah” or a “Koran” or a plethora of other books, literature, tracts, cave paintings and oral histories, real and imagined. Side effects of agreeing and disagreeing upon a brand, make, model, flavor, or version of Jesus has caused entire countries to fly into a hysterical, pious rage and go to war with one another, causing the loss of millions of lives over the years. Some restrictions apply. Your experience may vary.

P.S. Why don't you just go get a new heathen boyfriend, or a Catholic one, so you can fuck him all this time? Way easier, because I fear your current one is already ruined, more then likely.


Stop Snorting - Know what I just read? Yeah, me either, but it seemed to say this: “Blah blah otherwise sweet blah blah! And this blah and that blah and she blah snort blah blah...” Gee whiz, too. How almost brutally uninteresting, this recycled, we've-already-heard-it-before dogshit office-worker letter. Thanks, Prudie. We're all on the edge of our seats here, really. Snore. Or should I say, snort. I funny, really I funny.

Recap: You have a job. You have a coworker. She makes snorting noises that are, evidently, worse to listen to than flying hordes of screeching vomiting demons from the bowels of hell itself howling curses straight out from the evil mind of the Dark One himself upon your soul in your worst fucking nightmares. You want to make her stop, because you are awesome and snortless, and she's not, and this, like, sucks.

Here's my recommendation to Prudie for a letter for next week: “Dear Prudie: there's this majorly manipulative slagpile of an ugly-ass bitch out of hell in my office who thinks her shit doesn't stink, and she hates the fact that I'm like totally prettier than she is but when I get all nervous and shit I make a snorting sound. She's so totally stupid that she thinks I'm, like, unaware of it, although I have so known my whole entire life, or since my BFF in 5th grade Angela told me about it, that bitch. Anyway, this office chick: can I like massively beat her to fucking death with a hammer or something without going to prison?”

So, you want to be the bearer of bad news couched in a presumptuously helpful message and educate this unprincipled and vile little creature? Fine, you snot.

You want to know what to tell her? Great! Let's go to the Schuyler The Cat Tells You What To Say-O-Matic!!! In case you need to review: I give you three optional things to say to Snortzilla, and you pick one, even at random, then go tell her.

Ready? Great! Here are your three choices:

1.) “Jennifer (or whatever her name is), I wanted to bring a small matter to your attention. It's not a big deal, really, so you shouldn't be embarrassed about it, but I am concerned for you and your image here at work. You see, you make a sound sometimes, a kind of snorting sound, and I believe that even though it's probably involuntary and a nervous thing it might make people uncomfortable when you do it. I say this not to be mean, but to help you understand that you do it, and maybe if you are cognizant of it you can control this sound and perhaps stop doing it.”

2.) “Jiminy Fucking Hell, you sound like a poleaxed warthog trying to blow a fucking snot bubble out it's crinkly ass, you disgusting little puke licker. Stop it already with the goddamn snorting sounds, okay? Oh, and why don't you just quit? You obviously aren't good enough to work around me. Bitch.”

3.) “Hi boss. I would like to tender my resignation straight away, because I have discovered – by reading Schuyler The Cat's DP blog, no less – that I am a controlling, foul, manipulative, impatient, malicious, invasive, nasty-tempered, soulless, egotistical bitch of the worst possible kind, and I cannot in good conscience commingle with otherwise kind, charitable, and good human beings because I may attempt to fuck up their lives all day and night endlessly because I have this belief that I am better than them, even though I am really just a cabbage-headed twat-for-brains. It was a pleasure working with you, although you cannot reciprocate that statement. I'll clean out my desk immediately.”

I'd tell you, but maybe I'll just snort it to you instead: may I recommend you pick #3?


The Good Son – What kind of a worthless, ungrateful, layabout whelp are you, anyway? You're not “The Good Son”. You're the “Good-for-Nothing Son”. Man, what a jerk you are.

Recap: Your dad, a pretty good guy, has been jobless a long time. His ex-employer was a dickwad and won't give him a reference. Your dad – a man who raised you, cared for you, suffered for you, and has done everything he can his whole life just to make your life better – wants you to pretend to be his ex-boss and give him a good reference to get a job. Now, you're wondering if...


Wait a minute. He what? Fucking hell, he what?!?! You're kidding! Oh man, what a jerk he is.

Desperate times or not, there's a phone call coming to your future if you do this, and it's a beaut:

THEM: “Hello Mister Pigglestien.”

YOU “Uh, er, hello Mister Venalbottom, I have been expecting your call.”

THEM “So, Mister Pigglestien; says here Bob was a talented hyper-array nodal parametric arc-ray conglomeratizer. How was Bob at operating the Hillsensworth 2000lxi Mk III Isometric Cathode Pseudo-plastination Array? Could he operate the capillary pre-scintillation oxy-flux dosimeter without causing isotopic degeneration of the hypergyros?

YOU: “Uh, yeah, he sure could, yep. That's what he was best at, really, you know, I'd say. Yes.”

THEM: “Great! Hard to find a good one. So how did he control the megaloplasmic deresolution of peri-elastomeric isotopic fissures?”

YOU “Uh, he used, uh, you know, the...uh...thingy and did, you know. Stuff.”

THEM: “You don't know much about hyper-array nodal parametric arc-ray conglomeratization do you, Mister Pigglestien. I suspect you are a big faker, too. I am calling the police, the FBI, the CIA, the NSA, the IRS, the NRA, the AFL-CIO, MADD, Cirque du Soleil, and the Secret Service, and we're going to put you and Bob away for a very, very long time, you son of a bitch.”


And then you wake up, dripping with sweat, paranoid, wondering when, oh God when will it happen for real?

I just fucking crack myself up.

Look, dude: you know the risks and so does he. I might not be entirely above trying something like this, provided it kept food on the table and paid the rent, but damn; it's risky, and just creepy that he asked you to do it. Mostly creepy, actually. I say if you're game, flip a coin on it.


Next-Door Nightmare – Gee, this is a real nasty one. Big goings on here, high-falutin' stuff, huh?


Yawn. Come on, Prudie team: can't you hire better writers? What the hell? I'm falling asleep here, goddammit. Short holiday week got you off balance? You get one of your kids to do this one? Dig it out of the waste bin and recycle it from 1982? Jeez.

Heavy sigh. All right: I'll start over.

Next-Door Nightmare – Recap: your neighbors are a passionate, piquantly verbose couple who frequently participate in sincere and frank exchanges of views with one another, often employing somewhat florid, objectionable language. These energetic exchanges are accompanied occasionally by the sound of things breaking. Also: they have a baby.

Golly. So original. I mean, it may not be interesting at all, but it sure is bland as hell.

My thrilling response to this thrilling, original missive:

Dear Sir or Madam,

It is customary for neighbors to hear the sounds of disputes, as people will tend to have disagreements. These can be very heated and frequent, and of concern to a neighbor should be the well being of both participants. Caution and care should be used when considering intervention, specifically given that some couples consider this activity to be normal, but if these disagreements seem violent to the point of abuse, intervention is certainly called for.

Extra care should be employed when there is an infant involved. When adults argue, responsibility for the issues which drive their disagreement is total; when an infant is involved and an argument includes crashing and breaking sounds, the responsibility is shared with neighbors who are in an objective way able to intervene and offer protection to said infant. This happens when the instinct of a neighbor exceeds the desire to “not get involved” or to “let the couple sort it out” and extends to the safety of the child. In these cases, a call to police, or to Child Protective Services, is certainly in order.

Best regards.

Now I am going to take a nap. That is, if I don't fucking yawn myself to death first.


There! I feel MUCH better!

Happy turkey and punkin pie and mashed 'taters and green bean casserole and cranberry sauce and beer to one and all – huzzah!

STC, out. =^oo^=